I had expected to be woken
By canons and church bells
And brass bands and people
Lining the streets
Waving the Union Jack and climbing
On each others shoulders
To get a better view
Of the victorious homecoming troops
And shouting 'Let me take your rifle son,
You won't be needing that anymore'.
But instead a kind of eerie silence pervades -
A bit like any other Bank Holiday really.
So, bemused I wander into town
Along with the other stragglers
Solitary shell shocked forlorn figures,
Some wearing medals
Who like me had somehow become left behind
And missed the best of the fighting.
Nor do the decorations inspire patriotic fervour,
Half a mile of bunting
And a scattering of flags
Hanging listlessly in the morning drizzle,
And the odd poster advertising fireworks tonight
All live ammunition having been descretely confiscated.
In one shop as if to draw attention
Away from their opening
There is a school project, a mock up
Of the Blitz
While others, not wishing to prosper from war
Have remained closed.
A handful of old soldiers are huddled
Around the memorial, in muted thanksgiving.
They place wreaths, salute and hug each other
And I feel if only I could hear what they were saying
Then I would really know.
But on TV celebrations are gathering pace.
Numerous authentic black and white films
And to stirring renditions of the Dam Busters
A parade for those who knew victims and survivors
Who wipe away tears and stare into no man's land,
And later beaming presenters will reunite
Sons and daughters of airmen missing
And presumed dead seventy five years ago
With their families, who in turn
Will be introduced to the grandchildren of their captors
Who have become best of friends
And who now regularly go fishing together.
